


Molly Please?

by ChiefDoctor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Heavy Angst, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:31:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiefDoctor/pseuds/ChiefDoctor
Summary: Time was up before she finished her I love you....the aftermath.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All the lovely fics for Sherlolly Appreciation week inspired me to want to write something. Although truth be told I found this out on my hard drive nearly finished from eons ago. It gave me that extra incentive to finish it.   
> This is a multi-chapter story but not too long....I will update fairly often.

“Molly, please?”  His eyes beseech her to say those words that will save her, that will save him.  His eyes never leave hers despite knowing she can’t see him, fully aware that time is nearly gone.  He sees her struggle to say them, to position the phone closer to her lips as if it was a secret she only wanted him to hear.  “Please?” He begs again, his eyes flash quickly to the timer to see only 3 seconds left.

As the phone touches her lips, she raises her eyes to look straight into his.  He’s unnerved, even knowing she can’t really see him, but his eyes do not waver as he silent begs the words from her mouth.  Struggling to breath, as if a weight is pressing down against her chest she stutters, “I ……….”

The sound of an explosion drowns out anything else she might have said, and the screen goes blank.

“No!” He shouts to the heavens.  “No! No! No!” he screams as he tears at his hair pacing in a small circle in front of the screen.  “Eurus, NO!”  tears from his throat as he tears at the screen before him, pulling it from the wall, crashing it to the ground.

Mycroft takes a step towards him, “Sherlock…” but stops when he sees the absolute devastation on his face.  “Oh…” he utters when true realization comes upon him.  Until that moment he had never been sure of Sherlock’s feelings for Dr. Hooper.  Sherlock’s face leaves no doubt any longer.

Eurus doesn’t seem to register Sherlock’s grief as she continues to prattle on about his “complicated little emotions” and “emotional context” or she knows exactly how much this has cost him and like a true psychopath cares not at all. 

She opens the door to the next room letting him know “this one won’t be so easy.”  Sherlock is shaking, barely standing, still clutching the weapon in his hand.  Without a word to Mycroft or John he staggers across the room, laying the gun next to the coffin.  As if in a trance he makes his way to the lid, his hand caresses the plague with the words that she could not say.  ‘Why couldn’t she say them?’  His heart asks.  She felt them, he knew she did, has for some time.  ‘Why was it so hard to say them out loud, to him?’

Carefully he moves to place the lid on top of the coffin.  He can feel the concern from John as he steps nearer, and barely hears him call his name but all he can see is his beloved staring back at him from inside the coffin.  Her eyes are shut but her beautiful face haunts him with its stillness.

No longer able to bear the site he covers her with the lid and caresses the words one last time.  Then he allows the rage to overtake him and slams his fist into the lid, again and again until it is in shreds and that is still not enough breaking it all until it is no longer recognizable.  He hears the guttural scream from his throat as he sinks in defeat that he wasn’t able to save her………and that she is indeed gone.

**~~~~~~**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

For the sake of John and Mycroft he allows himself to be talked into ‘being a solder’.  Compartmentalize, that is what he does…that is what he always does.  He finally solves Eurus’ clever little riddle and is able to save John Watson.  At least there’s that.

Despite what he told Eurus, he has no intention of saving her.  He cannot.  She has taken too much from him.  First Victor, then his childhood, his relationship with his family, and now his heart…Molly. 

He leans against the squad car with a blanket around his shoulders watching as they take her away.  He feels nothing towards her.  He barely has memories of her as a child, and after today he wants to never think of her again.  He can’t.  The pain is too great.

He allows Lestrade to fuss over him but directs him to take care of Mycroft instead.  He’s never seen his brother so rattled and that may be the most frightening part of this day.  Soon he and John are shoved into the back of a squad car and heading back to London. 

Despite his exhaustion he cannot rest.  Looking to his right, he envies how John can seemingly sleep anywhere, under any circumstances.  His mind does not let him rest, and his heart is too broken to even try.  They drop him at Baker Street despite John’s protests.  He knows his home has been decimated.  He’ll fit right in.

When he pushes back the black door he expects Mrs. Hudson to come from her flat and fuss about him but there is only silence.  Of course, she has probably gone elsewhere.  He searches his mind to think if he had been told where.  Her sister’s?  Mrs. Turner’s?  He shakes his head when there appears to be no answer.

Facing the stairs, he wills his beyond exhausted body to climb the seventeen steps to the place that has given him solace from the outside world.  Standing at the threshold he takes in the true devastation of Eurus’ patient grenade.

The wind whips at him from the gapping hole across from him.  His mind reminds him of his movements as he jumped through the panes of glass thankfully being caught by the awning over the deli.  Shuffling forward he takes in the books that have tumbled from the shelf, the papers whirling never seeming to stop their dance across the flat.  None of that matters.  He continues down the hall opening the door to his room.  It’s like stepping into another dimension.  Nothing has changed as it was untouched by the explosion.

As if by muscle memory, he takes off his Belstaff and hangs it on the hook behind the door, leaning against it until he heard the click.  Next came his jacket but that he let fall to the floor.  Without thought he removed the rest of his clothes until only his pants were left.  He slid between the sheets, covering his head to guard him from the evils of the world.

At first, he laid there staring into nothingness, until finally nothingness took him, and his body finally began to rest.

**~~~~~~**


	3. Chapter 3

It had been three days since Sherringford.  John’s calls to Sherlock at first rang and rang before going to voicemail, now they immediately went.  He surmised that the phone has shut off.  Repeatedly he has tried to reach Mycroft as well, but Anthea placates him with a “Mr. Holmes is unavailable.” 

Unable to sit still any longer, he gets Mrs. Nather next door to watch Rosie, and then heads to Baker Street.  He considered taking Rosie, as she always brightens his spirits, but he was a bit scared as to what he might find.  Would he be high?  Would he be dead?  Would he be gone?  He contemplated all these possibilities and more as he sat in the back of the cab. 

After paying the driver, he stopped to take in the rubble still lying in front of 221.  Bricks and debris were surrounded by yellow crime scene tape.  Speedy’s was closed and the street seemed quiet, too quiet.  Stretching his eyes upward he could see the large holes in the side of the building, the drapes flapping in and out.  His face scrunched up puzzled why nothing had been done to close over the hole.  ‘Surely Mycroft would have his minions at work, chop, chop.’

Passing through the front door he paused expecting Mrs. Hudson to tuttle out to him to make a fuss but then he remembered she had gone to her sister’s.  ‘Probably for the best.’ Came his next thought.

Straightening his shoulders, he braced himself for whatever awaited him at the top of the stairs.  The flat door was closed and to his surprise locked.  Luckily, he still had his keys and soon stepped inside.  His eyes boggled with the level of devastation the flat had received.  Furniture was upturned, pillows burst with their feathers floating this way and that, the ever-whirling wind seemed to keep paper, feathers in constant motion. 

His eyes went this way and that searching out Sherlock’s form.  Staying close to the walls, because honestly that large burn in the rug seemed to go into the floorboards, he made his way into the kitchen.  It looked relatively untouched from the day they were there except for the impact the bomb had made.

With no signs of Sherlock out here, he made his way to his private room.  Even while he lived there he barely ever went past the threshold.  Opening the door, the first thing that struck him was the stench.  Huddled in a heap, beneath the covers he found Sherlock, still breathing at least.

“Sherlock!  Sherlock, wake up!”  He jostled him, rolling him back and forth to wake him from his deep stupor.  Just as he was contemplating calling an ambulance, Sherlock opened his eyes, then turned away from him hiding again beneath the blankets.  “Sherlock, get up!”

When Sherlock turned back towards him it was the face of a man who had given up, who no longer had any reason to get out of this bed.  With soulless eyes he croaked, “Why?”  Without waiting for an answer, he turned his back to John and covered his head once again.

“Are you using?” He demanded to know.

“No.” came the quiet answer beneath the blanket.

Staring at the lump in front of him, he wasn’t sure what to do.  “I don’t believe you Sherlock.”

“I promised.”  He sighed.

“You promised that many times before, and it hasn’t stopped….”

“I promised….her!”  He interjected.

John didn’t have to ask who ‘her’ was.  It was without a doubt Molly.  At once, John understood his pain, his loss because he had barely begun to recover from his own.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rested his head in his palms trying to process this new devastating loss.  He thought about his daughter and how close she and Molly had become these past months.  ‘Another person she will have to live without.’  The list seemed to be growing.

Looking over his shoulder towards Sherlock, he vowed that his daughter wasn’t going to lose another one.  She needed her Uncle Sherlock as much as he did.

“Sherlock..” He said quietly, “she wouldn’t want this.  She would be quite cross with you if she knew you were just lying here, in your own piss, waiting to die.”

Without turning towards him, he said, “Yes, your right John.  I fully expect a slap when I see her again.”

So that was his plan: die so he could reunite with her.  John understood wanting that.  He considered it himself but the thought of Rosie growing up with neither of her parents sobered him up, quite literally.  Standing he looked back at the lump that was Sherlock and wondered how he could reach him.  ‘How he could get him to see that Molly would not want him to die for her but to live his life fully?’

**~~~~~~**

When Sherlock had first slid between the covers he at first felt relief, rest finally.  He could not remember ever being this bone weary tired….not even when he was hunting down Moriarity’s network all over four continents.  Soon the ache in his chest became too great.  From beneath the covers he pulled the other pillow to him to try to ease the ache there.  He knew it would do nothing because his heart had been broken beyond repair.  It was in that moment, he heard Moriarity’s words, “I will burn the heart out of you.”  And in that moment, he knew that he had.

Despite his objections, his body required rest and shut him down for several hours.  It wasn’t a restful sleep.  No, it was like that three minutes were on a constant loop in his head making him relive it again and again….always with the same ending.

“Molly, please?” He pleaded as the latest loop had woken him from his unrestful sleep.  Lying there, he remembered that she was gone, and his heart broke all over again.  Tears marred his face, creating large wet spots on his pillow. 

He tried to think of the happier times they had had.  A serene smile came to his face as he thought of the countless hours they worked together in the lab.  He stole looks at her when she wasn’t looking, and he suspected she did the same.  Actually, he knew she did.  She wasn’t quite as covert as he was.  A smile tugged at his face at the thought of her blushing when he caught her.

But then he’d remember…..

As he lay there, he tried to remember her scent: Lavendar with a touch of sandlewood but always with an underlay of formaldehyde.  She thought no one could still smell it on her; perhaps no one else did.  It was who she was….  was!  He was already thinking of her in the past tense.  “NO!” 

Scrunching his eyes up tight, he pictured her as he had the first day she enthralled him.  He’d sauntered into the morgue, his coat flapping, being his most arrogant self.  Without preamble he strode up to her autopsy table without uttering a word, but he stopped several feet away watching.  Her cuts were precise, her notations accurate, she showed a dexterity he had never seen her exhibited before.  This was her element, this is where Molly Hooper shown.  It wasn’t until he made his presence known that she fumbled, dropping the scalpel from her most capable hands.  He’d had to pretend to examine the body up close to hide his smirk.

_“You look sad. When you think he can’t see you.”_

_“Are you okay? Don’t just say you are, because I know what that means—looking sad when you think no one can see you.”_  
  


_“You can see me.”_  
  


_“I don’t count.”_

 

At the time he couldn’t understand how she thought she didn’t count but over the two years he was away from London he thought about it quite a bit.  He was cold, callous, unappreciative of her.  Of course, she thought she didn’t count.  Even if it was so far from the truth.

 

_“What do you need?”_

_“You.”_

Those words tear at his heart.  He meant them then, but she never knew.  He couldn’t say.  He was leaving, possibly never to return.  He had to let her go, along with John, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.  He had to leave so they could live….. without him.  Up until right now, that was the hardest thing he had ever done.

_“Say it first.  Say it like you mean it.”_

_“I..I love you.  I love you.”_

_“Molly, please?”_

He couldn’t stop the tears.  Seeing what his words did to her.  He’d never forgive himself.  In the end, it didn’t matter.  He put her through hell for nothing because Eurus took her from him anyways.  There wasn’t any point to any of it any longer. 

He may have proclaimed to everyone that he was married to his work but that was not as true as it once was.  He needed his friends, his family, even Mycroft.  Because of him Mary is dead, taken from her husband and child long before she should have been.  All to save him.  His friend, his best friend went through hell after his wife died.  He may have honored Mary’s last request to save John, but did he really need to do the drugs for that to work.  Or was Molly right, he just needed a reason to get high.  In the end, they had to take care of him again, worry about him again, worry her about him again.  Molly, his Molly stood by him when he was at his absolute worst going through withdrawal, the shakes, being moody, and being an absolute prick.  What did her devotion to him get her?  Gone!

All he’s done is hurt the people in his life, cause them pain, cause them death.  He doesn’t know if he will see her again after this life.  Even if he believed in all of that, he’s sure she would be with the angels and he would not.  But he’ll hurt no more.  He won’t hurt himself, or those he cares about any longer.  He hopes she’ll be there waiting for him…..he has so much he’d like to say to her.  “I love you, Molly Hooper.” He murmurs as he falls back into sleep.

**~~~~~~**


	4. Chapter 4

John left his friend with the realization that he was not going to be able to do this alone.  Feeling the bighting wind as he passed through the lounge of 221B he punched Mycroft’s number again.  When Anthea tried to turn him away again, he stopped her.  “Anthea, I’m sure you have your orders but I’m at my wits end.  Sherlock has taken to his bed and has decided that is where his life will end.  He has lost the will to live.  I need Mycroft’s help.”

At first there was silence on her end, and he began to wonder if she had hung up.  Then, “Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes is….”

“Yes, unavailable.  I know, so you’ve said.”  He fumed.

“No, it’s more than that.  He’s not himself.  He hasn’t been to the office since he returned from Sherringford.  I fear, he too, has lost the will to live.”

“What?”  He blurted stopping still in his pacing.  ‘They didn’t call Mycroft the Ice Man for no reason, nothing got to him.’

“I’m afraid Mycroft isn’t going to be able to help you Dr. Watson.  I’m sorry.”  He could hear the fear in Anthea’s voice.  She was truly rattled, and he never thought that was possible.

He stood there, the fear now overtaking him, that the world had been completely altered and there may be no going back.  Finally, he was able to say, “I understand Anthea.  Let me know if there is something I can do to help.”

“Let me know as well, Dr. Watson.  I still have access to the full power that our office has to offer.”

He smiled at that because he was sure that at some point he would need it. At just that moment, a huge gust of wind forced through the openings in the walls causing him to shiver.  “Actually, do you think you could send someone over to take care of the large gaping hole on the side of 221?”

Through her words, he heard a smile.  “Of course, Dr. Watson.  I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, Anthea.”  He said gratefully.

**~~~~~~**

Now that the flat was going to be taken care of, he needed to focus on Sherlock.  With Mycroft unavailable, his next thought was Greg.  As he pulled up his number he ambled down the stairs.  It was too damn cold in the flat, and he wasn’t sure if Sherlock was listening.  He didn’t think he should hear him talking about Molly.

“Lestrade here.”  He answered in his gruff detective voice.

“Hey Greg, its John.”

“Hey there John.  How is it going?”  He sounded distracted, probably busy with a case.

“Not so well.  Greg, I’m in over my head over here.  I need your help with Sherlock.”

“Sherlock?  Why what’s up?  This isn’t about his sister is it?”  He could hear the detective flop into a chair, so he was probably at the office.

“It’s a bit about his sister but it’s mostly about Molly.”  He nervously ran his hand down his face as he paced in the foyer.

“Molly?  What about Molly?”  Greg asked casually.

John was confused.  ‘Weren’t he and Molly friends?  Shouldn’t he be more upset about her death?’  “Sherlock is having a difficult time accepting Molly’s death.”  He finally said.

“WHAT!?!  Molly’s dead?”

John pulled the phone away and stared at it.  ‘Was Lestrade really as stupid as Sherlock always said he was?’  Bringing it back to his face he said, “Surely you know that she died in the explosion at her flat.”

“An explosion?  At her flat?  When?”  His voice sounded harried as if he was moving quickly.  “When?”  he shouted impatiently.

“It happened while we were at Sherringford.”

“Sherringford!  That was days ago!”  He could hear him snapping his fingers at someone.

“Yes, I know.  I thought you would have already known……”

But he was cutoff by Lestrade barking to Donovan, “Get me the file on the explosion at Molly Hooper’s flat.  It would have been three days ago.”

John could hear his hurried footsteps and his plop back into his chair.  “Jesus, John!  I had no idea.  Was this part of his sister’s sick games?”

“Yeah, yes it was.”  He was going to elaborate but he heard knocking in the distance.

“What is it Donovan?”  He heard through the phone.  He couldn’t make out what she said but he heard Greg’s response loud and clear.  “Well, how the hell is that possible?  Get on over there right now and find out what the hell is going on?”

“Greg?”  He prompted.

“Yeah, sorry John.  So, Donovan said there is no record of an explosion at Molly Hooper’s address.  Are you sure about this?”

“What!?!” He stopped pacing, trying to decide if hope was too much to ask for.

“I’ve sent Donovan over there to see what’s going on.  Do you want to meet me there?”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.  See you soon.”  Quickly dropping his phone in his pocket, he rushed out to find a taxi.  Within moments he was on his way to Molly’s flat hoping against hope that they had all been wrong.

**~~~~~~**


	5. Chapter 5

As the taxi pulls up to Molly’s building, he sees no signs of a bomb having exploded.  At least at Baker Street there was damage to the exterior.  Quickly he makes his way up to Molly’s flat where there is a uniformed officer standing outside her door.  As he’s about to show his credentials to the officer, Greg sees him and waves him in.

“As you can see John, her flat didn’t explode.  Why exactly did you think it had?”  Greg states calmly, although he looks anything but.  John gives him the details of the phone call with Sherlock and Molly and describes how the phone call ended.

“It must have been another one of his sister’s sick games then.”  Greg shakes his head wondering if all the Holmes are nutters.

“So, then where’s Molly?” John finally asks.

“No idea, probably Bart’s?”  Greg suggests.

Just then Donovan steps into the conversation, “So boss there’s another part of this story that doesn’t make sense.”

“What’s that?” He prompts.

“No cameras!”

“NO Cameras?!?” John explodes, “That’s not possible.  We watched her.  She was standing right there.”  He pointed to the kitchen counter that she had been using to make her tea.

“We’ve done an electronic probe as well as a physical sweep and have come up with nothing.” She shrugs.

“Mycroft?” Greg suggests.

John nods and pulls out his mobile.  Punching Mycroft’s number, he waits to be turned away by Anthea, again.  But before she does, he asks her if anyone removed the surveillance cameras from Molly Hooper’s flat.  He thanks her before ending the call.  “Anthea says that there was no order from Mycroft or her to remove anything from Molly’s flat.”

“Ok, so what does this mean?”  Greg grouses to John.  While John was on the phone, Donovan started looking at the flat through the lens of a crime scene.  She noticed a few things.

Turning towards John she begins, “John so you said you believed Molly to be dead, correct?”  He nods.  “And you based this on what you had seen in the video feed you believed to be coming from this flat?”

“It was coming from this flat.  Look.”  He walks over to the kitchen counter and points to the tea and lemon still sitting there.  “She was making this tea when we saw her.”  Donovan makes a careful observation of the tea mug and the fruit determining it has been sitting there for some time, possibly days.

“Ok, so let’s assume that is accurate and she was here.  Where is she now?”

“Barts?”  Greg suggested.  “Christ, did anyone even check that she was at work?”  John immediately called Mike Stanford to determine if they had all been losing it for nothing and Molly was just hiding out at the morgue.  As he spoke to Mike, Donovan continued to survey the flat, noting discrepancies to that theory.

“She’s not at Barts.  Mike hasn’t heard from her in three days and she was scheduled to work two of them.  He says it’s not like her to not call in, but he thought it might be related to Sherlock and what happened to Baker Street.  He thought he was giving her her space.”  Both men shook their head worrying about what all this meant.

Donovan interjected, “I know that was where you were hoping she was but there are other signs that Molly  didn’t just leave on her own.”

“What?!?”  The two men’s shocked faces stared at her.

Pointing over to the door, she states, “It’s unlikely that she would have left without her coat and scarf, not in this weather.  Not to mention her boots.”  The men surveyed her coat and boots.  “And before you say anything else, what person today leaves their house without their mobile?”  She pointed to where it sat next to the cutting board.  “Gentlemen, I think we need to treat this as a crime scene and look for clues that Molly Hooper has been abducted.”

“Jesus Christ!”  Greg exclaimed.

John leaned heavily against the back of the lounge chair, “Oh shit, when will this damn nightmare be over?”  At that moment Toby made his presence known by worming his way through John’s legs.  Bending down he picked him up, “Hey there Tobes, any idea where your Molly is at?”  Toby just meowed at him.

When he went to the kitchen to check on his food supply, he could see that his dishes were empty and dry.  No food or water.  Molly was ridiculous about feeding him on schedule and was known to overfeed him if she felt guilty about missing time with him.  Without a doubt, Molly had not been in this flat for a minimum of two days.  He rushed back to the lounge where Donovan and Lestrade were discussing theories, “Molly definitely hasn’t been here for days.”  When they looked up, he continued.  “Toby hasn’t been fed in days, nor does he have water.  If Molly was here that would never happen.  Also, if she knew she was going to go away she would have taken him to a neighbor or had them come to her flat to feed him.”  When they questioned how he’d know that he sighted a time Sherlock tried to commandeer her to work with him on a case.

After feeding Toby, John pulled Greg to a corner, so the others wouldn’t hear.  “It looks like she has been taken, doesn’t it Greg?”

Rubbing back and forth on his face, he says, “Yeah, I’d say it does.  On one hand I’m relieved she’s not dead but god John, it’s been days.  She could be anywhere….in the world!”

John had had that same thought.  He tried to control the feeling of terror and guilt that he was beginning to grip him.  “We need Sherlock.”

Greg’s head popped up to look at him and nodded.  “Yeah, we do.”

**~~~~~~**


	6. Chapter 6

He knew he needed to tell Sherlock, but he wasn’t sure he’d believe him at this point.  With that thought in mind, he convinced Greg to accompany him back to Baker Street.  When they arrived, crews were already making temporary repairs to the outside of the building.  ‘At least it would keep the wind out.’ He thought.

John had warned him about the state of the flat and of Sherlock but he could see it pained him to see the strong detective lying in his own piss, waiting to die.  When he tried to rustle Sherlock from his sleep this time, he faced an angry man.  “Piss off, John!  I told you leave me alone.”

“Sherlock we’ve found something out…..about Molly.”  He saw his body stiffen as if he was afraid to breathe at the mention of her name.  John looked over to Greg for support, and when he nodded John continued.  “She might not be dead, mate.”

At that, Sherlock turned quickly to look him in the eyes, his own eyes were wide in astonishment.  “It’s possible, Sherlock.  We just came from her place.”

At the pronoun “we”, he looked up to see Lestrade also standing over his bed.  Looking back and forth between the two, finally he said, “Tell me.”

“Her flat didn’t blow up.”  John stated.  Sherlock looked at him incredulously, turning to Lestrade for confirmation.

Greg nodded.  “We just came from there.”

“But!?!”  Sherlock implores John to make sense of this because his heart is in charge right now and it is in tatters.

Calmly John continued, “It must have been a trick, Sherlock.  Another one of Eurus’ tricks.”

An eerily serene smile came over his face, “So she’s still alive.  Molly Hooper is alive.”  He started to rise from the bed.

“Well, the thing is we’re not sure.”  Greg started hesitantly.

Sherlock stared at him, then at John.  “What do you mean your not sure?  How can you not be sure?”  He demanded.

John came closer, sitting on the edge of the bed.  “We can’t find her.  She’s not at her flat.  She’s not at Bart’s.”

“The thing is mate, we think she’s been abducted.”  Greg interjected.

“Abducted!”  He practically shrieks looking back and forth between John and Greg.  They nod in assent.

At first, he sits near motionless, his hands together below his lips.  John wonders if he has gone off into his mind palace.  Without moving he asks, “What have you found?”

Greg pulls out his notepad, “After we didn’t find the cameras or any explosives, we started to look at the scene differently.  Donovan noticed that her coat, scarf, purse, and boots were still by the door.  It’s unlikely she would have gone out in this current weather without them.  Her mobile was on the kitchen island, where John said she was ….”

“Where she was during that phone call, mate.”  John added.  Sherlock did not react as he took in their data.  “And also there’s Toby.” 

He quirks his eyebrow looking in John’s direction.  “Toby’s water and food dish were completely dry.  It didn’t look as if he’d been fed in several days.”

That was all Sherlock needed to hear.  He threw back the covers and jumped from the bed.  Greg and John stepped back as the stench reached them.  Sherlock went to his wardrobe and began selecting a suit and shirt as he was talking incessantly to himself.  They could only make out a few words.

When it appeared, he was going to get dressed, John stopped him there.  “Hold on there mate.  You need a shower and food before you’re going anywhere.”

“A shower?  Really, John?  There’s no time to lose.  Molly…”

“Molly would like you to not smell like a sewer when we find her.”  He pushed him into the direction of the washroom.  “Go!”  Reluctantly he had to agreed when he took a moment to smell himself.

Greg and John moved towards the lounge surveying the workman closing up the wall.  John took inventory of the kitchen then left Greg to get Sherlock up to speed on the details while he ran to the shops for food.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock emerged from his room in a dark blue suit with a crisp white shirt already pulling on his Belstaff.  When he came out, he was surprised to see workers closing the hole in his wall.  Now that the wind had been cutoff the debris that had been flying about had settled.  He surveyed the mess that was once his sanctuary.  “That’s one hell of a mess!”  Greg stated as he came to stand next to him.

“Thank you for the obvious Detective Inspector.  Let’s go.”  He headed towards the door but heard the front door slam and footsteps heading their way.  If he had been more on his game, he would have known it was John long before he’d seen him….but he was not.

“Where do you think you’re going?”  He asked as he got to the top step. 

“To Molly’s, we have a case, John.”  He answered, rolling his eyes at his partner.  “Honestly John, have you forgotten already.”

“No, go to the kitchen.”  He gestured with the bags in his hands.  Sherlock considered ignoring him and leaving anyways but he needed John, and Greg.  He knew he was already too compromised to be doing this, but it was Molly, he had to.  Greg or John might help him not overlook anything.

He followed John into the kitchen and sat in the chair that he pointed to.  Greg sat down across from him.  John fussed in the kitchen first making tea then putting their sandwiches on plates.  They ate in silence.

As soon as the meal was completed, Sherlock jumped to his feet.  “Now gentlemen, can we go?”  John gave Greg a look and they both nodded.  The game was afoot and for the first time in nearly a week, Sherlock had hope of seeing Molly again.

**~~~~~~**


	7. Chapter 7

Meanwhile, Molly had awoken in an underground bunker/safe house.  Vaguely she remembers men in black suits coming into her flat while she had laid in a puddle on the floor after that phone call ended.  She saw their shiny shoes first but as her eyes were making their way up their legs, she felt a prick in her neck and then everything went black. 

Pushing herself into a sitting position, she rubs her neck feeling the soreness at the injection site.  She’s groggy and she wonders how long she’s been out.  Looking around the bedroom she immediately knows she’s not home and panic begins to set in.  ‘Where is she?’  ‘Why was she brought here?’  ‘By whom?’

Slowly she rises from the bed listening carefully for any other sounds around her.  The silence is deafening.  She slides back into her shoes that were lying next to the bed and quietly makes her way to the door.  It surprises her that it is not locked.  Making her way down the hallway she sees a lounge area on her left and a kitchen on her right.  They are both empty.  Doubling back, she double-checks the bedroom again, along with the bathroom….no one.

Taking in the look of the flat it reminds her of a safe house Mycroft once took her after Moriarity appeared on every screen in the kingdom.  “What the hell is going on Mycroft?”  She shouts to the ceiling.  She’s angry.  She’s angry at Sherlock.  Now she’s angry at Mycroft.  Honestly, she is just angry!  She’s tired of everyone manipulating her.

Deciding she needs to calm down before they show up, as they surely will, most likely all smug about themselves; she roots in the cupboard for tea.  When she finds her favorite, she decides maybe she hates Mycroft a little less.  But as she waits for the water to boil, she says, “Yeah like Mycroft has any idea what tea I drink…this is all Anthea.”  A sigh of relief finally leaves her, tired of the emotions of the day, and not having the strength to keep up the anger.

When her tea has steeped, she takes her first sip letting the comfort of tea calm her.  After several more sips, she begins to explore her surroundings.  Pulling the curtain back over the kitchen sink, she is at first surprised to see the window boarded up, but then not.  ‘It wouldn’t be a safe house if anyone could see in.’ She surmises.  She confirms that the other windows are indeed covered as well.  She isn’t surprised when the front door is locked but wonders why no one comes when she calls out to them.  Surely, Mycroft would have an agent guarding the door.

She looks around for a telly but there is none.  A quick search of her person produces no mobile and it isn’t in the bedroom either.  There is a small bookshelf with some old paperbacks.  Not too many to her taste, spy novels and such but something to keep her occupied at least.  She nearly squeals when she finds an old battered copy of _Pride and Prejudice_.  Despite knowing the story inside and out, it always gives her such joy to read Jane Austin’s words again.  Taking her tea, she curls up on the somewhat comfy sofa and looses herself in a familiar place.

Hours must have past when she puts aside the novel to stretch from her position on the sofa.  She’s somewhat surprised that no one has barged in yet.  She had expected Anthea, or Mycroft, or possibly even Sherlock, although she really didn’t want to face him right now.  But no one has come.

Her growling stomach pushes thoughts of the Holmes brothers from her mind as she goes to the kitchen in search of food.  The pantry and refrigerator are fully stocked.  She has to give Anthea full props for that.  As she’s making some simple pasta, she giggles to herself thinking how Sherlock’s idea of food is a tin of biscuits and tea.

After her meal, she takes her book to the bedroom where she reads until she falls asleep.  The next few days continue in the same vein.  When she finishes P&P, she gives one of the spy thrillers a try.  It’s not until the third day when no one has shown up that she starts to panic.  What if this wasn’t Mycroft?  Why else would she be here?  Where was here?  Did anyone even know where she was?

As she is making her lunch, it occurs to her that if no one comes how long will it be before she runs out of food?  At that moment, she decides she should begin rationing what is left.  Eating smaller meals will help it last longer.  This way of thinking makes her want to panic.  She wonders if it’s the influence of the spy novel that she has been reading.  It occurs to her that she should have a weapon.  When a search of the place produces nothing else; she picks up the small carving knife she has been using in the kitchen.  ‘It will have to do’, she supposes.

**~~~~~~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps now you can breathe easier knowing she's alive......


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one hurt a little....sorry.

Sherlock has been over everything more times than he can count.  He had personally gone over her flat inspecting every surface for a clue.  He even listened when Donovan gave her account of the investigation.  He had talked to Mike even though he knew it was going to come up fruitless.  Mike was able to confirm what he thought to be true; that Molly had no living family.  So that ruled out her going to them for help.

Showing up at her best friend, Meena’s, he scared her first by demanding that she tell him where Molly was then again when he broke down in front of her declaring he couldn’t go on without her.  Meena actually felt sorry for the bastard.

By the second day of his investigation, Sherlock had moved into Molly’s flat.  He wanted to feel closer to her, and he reasoned he could take care of Toby for her.  Sitting on her sofa, he was mindlessly petting Toby when John knocked on the door.  Not letting go of the cat, he opened the door for John ushering him in.

John stared at him as he flopped back on the sofa continuing to pet Toby and Toby continuing to let him.  Before speaking, John observed that there were “case notes” tacked to Molly’s wall, something he was fairly sure she wouldn’t approve of.  Sherlock was wearing pajama bottoms, a rumpled tshirt, and his camel dressing gown.  ‘Wait, where did he get those? When he dropped him off here, he was wearing his suit and had no tote bag with him.’

When he started to ask, Sherlock dismissed him.  “Honestly John, you see but do not observe.  I have a key to Molly’s flat.  Wouldn’t it also be logical that I keep a few personal items here as well.”

John’s jaw dropped as he processed those words.  “Are you and Molly?  Have …you two been?”  He began trying to understand what this all meant.

Sitting up with the cat still in his lap, he gave John a withering look.  “No, John we aren’t.”  But the look on his face told him that he wished they had been.

“Oh, I see.” John stated.

“Do you?  Do you John?  Because I can’t see anything anymore.  All I see is the devastation on her face right before the explosion went off.”

“But it didn’t go off.”

“Yes, I know!”  He shouted as the cat took off from his lap to hide in the bedroom.  With Toby no longer as his purpose, he jumped up and started pacing.  “But where is she John?  It’s like she just vanished!”  He stopped in front of John with near tears in his eyes.  “Where can she be John?” he pleaded in a near whisper.

**~~~~~~**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep apologies for not posting these past few days. Work has been a bear (and a half)...these sixty hour weeks are killing me! We are so close to the end of the story. I am so thrilled by all of your lovely comments and support.  
> Warning for possible dubious science within. :)

By her own tabulations it has been seven days since she woke up in this place.  She’s not entirely sure since she can’t see daylight and she has no clock.  As she assesses the situation, she realizes she will be out of food in less than a week. 

She can’t understand why no one has come.  If she was kidnapped, surely the criminal would have been by, by now.  If it was Mycroft, wouldn’t he or Anthea or one of his agents have been by to apprise her of the situation.  At this point, she would even face Sherlock if she had to.  Sitting there at the kitchen table, listening to the silence, it occurs to her that no one is coming.  But then why would they…..she’s not important.  No one probably even misses her.  A small tear makes its way down her cheek.

By the end of the second week she’s living mostly on tap water and saltine crackers.  She’s rationing everything for as long as she can.  Sitting there at the breakfast table she stares at the useless phone on the wall.  She remembers when she first spied the ugly avocado phone that had to be at least fifty years old.  Since then she’s tried it endless times but of course it had no dial tone.

Then she remembers something she read, somewhere, that you could make phone calls to emergency personnel like 999 without even having a dial tone.  With her hopes raised, she gives it a try but of course, it doesn’t work.  Maybe that was only in America, she concedes.

She nearly gives up as now even the stale saltines are gone.  She still has tap water, but the food has been exhausted and so is she.  It’s been at least three weeks, she’s certain, although it could be longer.  As she thinks about Sherlock now, she’s not angry.  With all the time she’s had to think about it, she realizes this couldn’t have been his doing.  She remembers how desperate he sounded on the phone.  How badly he wanted her to say those words.  ‘Why?’  ‘What was going on on his end of that phone call?’  As her energy wans and her stomach growls, she hopes he heard her as she whispered those precious words into her phone that day.  ‘At least he will know how I felt about him.’

She drags herself to the sofa to at least be comfortable when the end comes.  No longer does she hope to be rescued or that Sherlock will come crashing through the door.  Thinking of him she begins to nod off.  Dreaming of him, as she often does, she remembers about a case of Sherlock’s where the teenagers were passing secret signals over the phone lines using Morse Code.  Bolting awake, she decides it was worth a try.

Removing the phone from the wall she pulled the wires out of the outlet.  Using a small knife, she stripped the wires of their coating.  She wasn’t sure if this was going to work but she didn’t have a lot of options.  Taking a deep breath, she began.  She tapped out the three short dots, followed by the three long dashes, followed by the three short dots.  Waiting a minute in between then she started again.  She didn’t want it to seem like a constant and for whoever heard it to misinterpret it as anything other than a call for help.

She’d been at it for days, three possibly four, she wasn’t sure.  She was nearly out of hope and strength.  By her own estimate, she’d been gone a month, and no one had come looking for her.

**~~~~~~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW....using a land line to call emergency services (911) is valid in (most of) America. Not sure if that applies to anywhere else.


	10. Chapter 10

It was pure luck that it was noticed by one of Mycroft’s men.  They’re not sure how long they had dismissed it before recognizing it as a cry for help.  Mycroft had perked up when he found out that there was still a possibility that Molly might still be alive.  It was the crushing guilt of her death, along with Victor’s and all that Sherlock had been put through as a result of Eurus that caused him to collapse in on himself.  With the help of Anthea and the hope of Molly’s recovery he was back in the game.  She was worried for him however if the outcome did not end as they all hoped.

It was her that called his brother.  “Sherlock, we’ve found something.  It might not be her.”  She needed to prepare him, in case it was not at all what they had hoped.  He grabbed onto the only piece of hope they had had in weeks. 

By the time he met them at Mycroft’s office they had ascertained the address that the signal was coming from.  “It’s an old safe house.  It’s been out of rotation for several months.”  She explains to him as they head for the cars.

When they arrived, the door had been barricaded with orders of condemnation from the city.  No one would have given it another look.  Sherlock begins to tear at the doors with his bare hands, but Mycroft pulls him back letting his agents by with their tools.

When they finally got the door open, Sherlock was the first one through.  “Molly!  Molly!”  He called as he raced through the subterranean flat.  He skidded to a stop when he found her slumped against the wall, the wires still in her hand that she had been using to summon him.

Gently, he took her face in his hands, staring at her, marveling that she was still alive.  “Sherlock?” She gasped, although her voice was rough from disuse.

“Yes.”  He smiled back at her.

“What are you doing here?”  She questioned.

Beaming at her now, he chuckled, “Why looking for you, of course.”  He pulled her into his chest, his arms secure around her.

“Me?  You were looking for me?  Why?”  She seemed befuddled and confused that Sherlock was here holding her to him.

Pulling back from her he made sure to look her full in the eyes when he said, “Because I love you.”

“Yo-u-u-u l-o-ve me?”

His smile lights up his face as he says, “Yes, I do!” and swoops down to take her lips in his.

 

_**The End** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you with questions.....  
> Eurus was the one who took Molly. She had planned more for the tortured couple but she got lost inside her mind. As a result, Molly was forgotten. Hopefully Sherlock can ease her (Molly's) mind and show her the love they both deserve. Thank you for all of your comments and support. It was nice to take a break from RL.


End file.
